by James Babbs
this shirt belonged to
my father
every time I wear it
I think of him
pouch of Red Man
chewing tobacco
tucked inside his
left front pocket and
I remember
the way it burned
my tongue when
he let me try some
how I immediately
spat it out
while he sat back
and laughed
watching him
working on
something in the garage
his sleeves rolled up as
he reaches for
the ball-peen hammer
pounding the piece of
metal he has
clamped in the vise
the sound of it
still
ringing in my ears
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